Chain of Command
by Kamikuro
Summary: Circumstances and curiosity brought them together, avarice and deceit will tear them apart. George Washington/Charles Lee
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Alright, spoilers for Assassin's Creed III.** The game has been out for just about a year, so I imagine there's not a whole lot of people that haven't played the game yet that have gotten this far, but you never know.

There's also going to be a bit of gay smut and swearing, so if that isn't your thing, then, my goodness, this fic is going to just ruin your day! If you'd rather read a less indecent Gen fic, look up my dreadfully neglected AC3 story**_ An Uneasy Truce_** under the **username S3pia**. I promise there is 80% more Haytham and Connor, 95% less Lee and Washington, and 10000% less gay sex (I'm really sorry for not updating lately, guys, but as it turns out the dirty fics are the ones that are more fun to write).

This is a fill for the Asscreed Kinkmeme. The prompt called for something simple; just basically an argument between George Washington and Charles Lee that led to hair pulling, face-smacking, lip-biting hate sex. And so I wrote a one-shot with middle aged Charles and George that was set sometime during the Revolution... and then I just sat on it. It felt like it was missing something. After going on a David McCullough bender, I realized that Charles and George had loads more interaction with each other than was portrayed in the game (and over the span of several decades), and their actions impacted each other in some very significant ways both fictionally and historically. So I had the idea of starting from the beginning—thus proving yet again that I can't manage to write a simple drabble when a big goddamn epic can be put in it's place.

I've done a fair amount of research and reading but obviously I'm taking great liberties with certain things, so if I get anything woefully historically inaccurate, let me—

Oh wait and there's also going to be founding father porn.

Alright, so if I get anything woefully historically inaccurate ASIDE from the gay buggering between said historical figures that I'm 99.9999% sure DID NOT happen—

_(although who can say because Martha Washington burned almost all of the correspondences between her and George under the pretense of protecting their privacy—which leads me to think there MUST have been some pretty salacious shit going on SOMEwhere in the late 18th century that she didn't want us to know about)_

—let me know.

* * *

Colonel George Washington swung down off of his horse with a wince and a groan, handing the reins to a waiting private. He muttered a word of thanks and instructions for a good rub down and some oats. Normally he would have handled the matter himself, but he was so sore and bone weary that he could think of little else other than stripping out of his damp, suffocating uniform, crawling into his cot, and falling into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

Unfortunate that he had one more duty to perform, but it was a relatively minor one. He could be abed before it was even full dark. Normally, he preferred to unwind from a day's toils by reading or writing home by the light of the fire, but after spending the day reconnoitering the steep and rugged valley staying up any later than he absolutely had to held little appeal. He headed towards the command tents, ignoring the screaming protest from the long, powerful muscles of his legs. George was a superb rider, one of the best in the regiment, and at home in Virginia there had not been a fox or hare alive that could have eluded him in a hunt, but day after day, week after week, the long hours in the saddle took their toll.

_Better by saddle than by foot_, he reminded himself, as he passed a group of his militiamen sitting on stools soaking their beleaguered feet in a wash tub. He nodded cordially but made no effort to join them or fraternize. He was their superior officer, and it would be unwise to appear to be too friendly.

General Braddock's tent was at the crest of a steep hill. George surveyed the incline with dismay; the spot had doubtlessly been picked so that it would not be flooded out in the heavy rain, but the vegetation had been mashed into nothing by the heavy tread of men, the slope rendered into thick mud that threatened to suck his boots right off his feet. George sighed and trudged his way up, doing his best to keep his mood from souring further. The air was cloyingly thick and smelt of rain. In the distance there was the sullen flash of heat lightning over the next ridge. Being a Virginian, George was no stranger to heat and humidity, but it was not yet Summer and already it was intolerably hot and wet, raining almost every day.

George was precise and fastidious by nature, his clothing always impeccable, but out here his high standards were simply impossible to achieve. Seldom was his wool uniform ever completely dry and as much as he fussed over it's cleaning, it was rarely without the acrid stink of sweat. He had written home for some cotton linens some time time ago, but feared he would never see them; not while he was stuck out in this wilderness, anyway.

As he approached General Braddock's tent two soldiers stepped forward to block his passage. They were both middle aged, perhaps twice as old as George, their faces hard and lined by long marches in the sun. Both surveyed him coolly.

"State your business," one of them said. His uniform identified him as a ranked British officer but, oddly enough, his accent marked him as a German.

"Colonel Washington, sir. I have a survey report for General Braddock," George said.

The rank was largely honorific; George did not have an official position in the chain of command and even the most lowly of British officers outranked their Colonial counterparts. George was disappointed but hardly surprised when the men budged not an inch.

"The general is occupied with other matters. He left standing orders not to be disturbed," said the other man, his British accent vaguely aristocratic to George's ears. "Give your report to me, sir. I'll deliver it."

Over the clatter of the evening camp life and the drone of insects, George heard what sounded suspiciously like a furious murmur and the sound of a hand striking flesh. He thought that perhaps he had imagined the noise, but the two officers before him exchanged a look for a fraction of an instant.

"I..." George said, losing his train of thought for a moment before he recovered himself. "Not to imply that you are anything but capable, but I was instructed to give the general my report as soon as humanly possible. And in person."

The German rolled his eyes in annoyance as if George's presence was the grandest of inconveniences. "Patience," he chided. The man turned and opened the flap of the tent very slightly, only wide enough for the light from within the heavy canvas to leak out, but not wide enough to reveal the interior. George could hear... Was that a whimper?

When the German turned back to face his companion there was color rising high on his cheeks and he looked as if he were smothering a smirk.

"He'll see you momentarily—" the man said, and then in the same breath, asked, "—Washington, was it?"

"Yes, sir," replied George, but he couldn't keep the frown from his face. Corporal punishment was not unheard of in the army, certainly not in Braddock's company, but all of the lashes and beatings that George had borne witness to had been out in the open, in full public view of the rest of the men so that an example might be made of them. He had never heard of private disciplinary action. Which begged the question: what in God's name was going on in there?

"Tell us about yourself," the British man said, but his tone suggested an order, not a request.

"I hail from just south of the Potomac—" George began, but paused when he heard a muffled curse and his eyes wandered from the British man's face to the tent.

"And who is your father?" the German prompted.

"Pardon?"

"What does your—_mit dieser Hölle_, nevermind." He turned to his companion. "Branson, how are your children?" he asked the man, his voice far louder than necessary to be heard at the mere distance of three feet.

George was too uneasy to be bothered by this odd rudeness. Something unsavory was going on the other side of that thin barrier and although he was curious he wasn't sure he wanted to know the nature of it. He had not been one of Braddock's men long, having just recently volunteered as an aide-de-camp. While George was not overly familiar with the man, what he saw of the battle-hardened General he found he did not care for. The man was belligerent and cruel, and most of his dealings with the man had been cool and dismissive if not openly hostile. More than his low personal opinion, George had heard other things about General Braddock; dark rumors of blood-soaked campaigns overseas and harsh, draconian punishment for those that stepped out of line.

The German and the man he had named Branson prattled on about nothing in particular, but at a conspicuous volume, pretending to ignore the young man before them as if he were no more sentient than the trees that surrounded them. Their eyes betrayed them, however, and would occasionally flick to George's person. George watched them glumly, silent. He waited for what felt like ages, but what was probably only a quarter of an hour. He slumped, shoulders stooped, shifting restlessly from side to side and tugging at his coat in places to try to find some relief from the damp heat. His eyes wandered first to the tent, then to the unremarkable trees that surrounded them, and then to the men whom he studied out of the corner of his eye. They were the very epitome of world-weary soldiers, both with scars and injuries that spoke to a lifetime of campaigning. Nothing about them stood out in particular... except for their rings.

Both men wore pewter rings with red crosses picked out in garnets or enamel. At first he thought they might be wedding bands, but the rings were worn on the right hand rather than the left. Were they members of some sort of fraternity? Neither man looked the scholarly type. Some Continental tradition perhaps?

He was about to inquire as to their significance, but the volume of what was going on in the tent far exceeded the volume of the two men's conversation.

"...You are _my_ man, not _Master_ Kenway's! Do we have an understanding?" came a shout from inside—General Braddock. The man had harsh edge to his voice, acidic to the ears, and there was hardly a man that didn't cringe the first time they heard him. George counted himself fortunate that he had not yet been on the receiving end of one of the general's blistering tirades, and he sympathized for whomever was enduring the man. The young man wondered dryly if he got his nickname "the Bulldog" from his tenacity in battle or from his fractious personality and his rough bark.

An inaudible mutter followed by another slap.

"I can't hear you, Lieutenant!" Braddock snarled beyond the tent flap.

"Yes, sir!" a man's voice answered in a gasp.

"Get the hell out of my sight! And you can tell that son of a bitch that if he _ever_ makes me look the fool again, I'll send you back to him in _little bloody pieces!_"

The tent flaps burst open as a man erupted from inside, a lanky red and black blur that jostled roughly past the two startled officers, so fast that before George could step aside to let the man pass, he was shouldered violently aside. He staggered, arms wheeling for balance, but the slick mud claimed him as he fell to his hand and knees.

His uniform. Oh, God, his _uniform_. It had not exactly been pristine before, but now his white socks and buff breeches were brown almost to the waist, his arms and coat splattered with unspeakable muck. The German chortled as George's face burned scarlet. The young colonel looked up, furious, glaring murder at the retreating man's back.

"Stop right there, y-you cretin!" he sputtered, but the bastard gave no indication that he had even heard him. The man tromped down the hill as fast as his long legs could carry him, all the while jerking his red coat tighter about himself despite the heat and yanking at his belt.

"You'll give him a dressing down another day, perhaps," Branson said, not unsympathetically, as he held out his hand for George to grip. George considered ignoring the gesture out of spite but his feet scrambled for purchase in the slick mud and he thought better of it. Branson helped him to his feet as the German pulled the tent flap ever so slightly aside.

"Sir? Colonel Washington to see you."

A muffled curse, then: "Alright. Send him in."

George entered with no small amount of trepidation. The first thing that he noticed was that General Edward Braddock's shirt was open to the waist, revealing an uncomfortable amount of pasty white flesh, and he was wearing breeches without socks or boots. George immediately adverted his eyes, looking down at the rug as his commander shrugged on a wrapping gown.

"I can give my report tomorrow, sir, if—" George began, but Braddock waved a hand at him while picking up an embroidered handkerchief in the other, patting at his face. He looked flushed and his forehead was wet with perspiration—more than George would have expected even for a man of his girth.

Braddock deposited himself in a camp chair behind a desk festooned with crumpled paper. A long, spidery finger of black ink slowly oozed across a rough topographical map of the region.

"Sir, there's—" George started but General Braddock saw it too.

"Bullocks," he growled and dabbed at the spreading ink ineffectually with a crumpled piece of parchment. "Get me something—" he started but George was already there, mopping up the mess with a handkerchief already stained by soot and dirt. It hardly made any difference; the desk was already smeared with fresh ink. Braddock scrutinized George's muddied uniform as the young soldier did his best to wipe up the offending mess.

"I ordered you to reconnoiter the valley, not bring it in with you," commented the general dryly. George flushed further, muttered apologies, and tried not to grimace at the ink that had soaked through the fabric and stained the flesh of his hand purple-black. "What do you have for me?" General Braddock demanded.

George placed the paper into Braddock's hands and then stepped back a respectable distance. George was a surveyor, not a cartographer, but he had rendered the terrain to the best of his abilities. General Braddock reviewed the young man's handiwork in silence. George could not help but notice that the man wore a ring on his right hand, reminiscent of what the two men outside wore, but this version was silver and more finely wrought, the cross picked out in tiny glittering rubies. Although he was curious, he didn't dare ask the significance.

George shifted uncomfortably, winced at the squelch the movement elicited from his boots. The small enclosed space was even more stifling than the air outside, and reeked of sweat and something else equally unpleasant that he couldn't place a name to.

"And you believe the scale to be correct?"

"I do, sir," George replied.

General Braddock turned the map so that he could examine it at a different angle, frowning. "Then this valley is quite narrow."

George shifted uncomfortably, his hands clasped behind his back. "It is." Silence again. When General Braddock made no further comment, George ventured, "Sir, if I may?"

General Braddock stared at him. He had to tip his head and lean slightly backwards to take in George's full stature. He cocked an eyebrow. George took that as his leave to plow ahead.

"It is my opinion, sir, that we should search for an alternate route to Fort Duquesne," said George, not as confidently as he would have liked. "The land is exceedingly rough, and the road is little better than a game trail; we will have to build one ourselves if we wish to take the wagons and artillery—"

But General Braddock had evidently heard enough. "When I want the opinion of some green, backwater _provincial_," sneered General Braddock, "I will ask for it. Do I make myself understood, boy?"

George just stared at him, too stunned to acknowledge.

"The reason you're a Colonel—the _only_ reason—is because your drunk of a predecessor had the _nerve_ to fall off his horse and inconvenience me by dying. And you just happened to be the least detestable of the pissants that your Lord Governor had the gall to name soldiers." General Braddock spat, malice in his dark little ferret eyes, "Do you think your piddling rank and woeful inexperience entitles you to an opinion on how I conduct my operations?"

"I—No, sir, of course not—" George stammered, but General Braddock was done with him. He waved his hand for George's fumbling to cease and jabbed a blunt finger in the direction of the exit.

"You are dismissed!" Braddock growled. Numbly, George turned to leave. As he stepped out, General Braddock called out to his retreating back, "And clean yourself up—you're a direct representative of His Majesty's royal person, _dress like it!_"


	2. Chapter 2

George stomped down the hill, shaking, fists clenched. To be treated with such despicable contempt... He wasn't even being _paid_ to suffer this sort of abuse; George had _volunteered_ his services, being already familiar with the area and keen to ingratiate himself with the British high command. How in God's name could they have picked Braddock to lead the expedition? Were they blind to his rages and incompetency? Uncouth, vile, wretched excuse for a man!

Perhaps more than he hated Braddock, he hated himself. He had cowered in the face of such spite and wrongheadedness, had allowed himself to be made the whipping boy for Braddock's foul mood rather than standing up for himself. He had presented a stoic face as he had turned and left, but inside he was conflicted, raging, somehow both boiling with anger and cold with despair.

"Y'alright there, sir?" Someone asked. George looked up, surprised. He had wandered past part of his own company without the slightest acknowledgment. The half-dozen of them looked at him expectantly.

"Evening, gentlemen. I'm fine," He replied.

The 'gentlemen' were all volunteers, as was George, and also from Virginia. But whereas George was from the civilized, genteel tidewater, those fellows were from the rugged upcountry; a region so remote and different from where George called home that it may as well have been a different colony. With their fringed leather coats, dun-colored homespun, unshaven faces, and homemade long-rifles they contrasted sharply, almost comically, against the neat and orderly Regulars. Despite their rugged appearance, however, they were far better equipped to deal with the situation at hand then their English-born counterparts. George's men had been in the process of cooking several plump rabbits that they had caught; a few of their more civilized neighbors glanced over from time to time with looks that were equal parts contempt and envy as they gnawed reluctantly on their salted beef before their own sullen fires.

"You get thrown by yer horse?" Asked Joseph Cale, a man old enough to be George's father. George heard a chuckle. He glanced over and saw that one of the men—well, a boy, really, perhaps no older than sixteen—whispered something behind his hand to another lad. Samson, an older man that stood just behind them, scowled. The man, who had the look of a grizzled bear, reached up and boxed them both about the ears and laid into them with an Irish brogue so thick that George couldn't begin to understand him, but both young men looked suitably chastened.

"No, someone shouldered me aside when I went to see Braddock about our situation," George admitted, straight-faced, willing himself not to blush at the fresh reminder of his disgraceful appearance. He thought darkly of the red and black blur responsible.

"You talk to Braddock?" asked Cale. "What did he say, when you gave him your report?"

George could not keep the frown from his face. "He's convinced that our current route is the most suitable."

There was an explosion of and groans and curses.

"—Fuckin' ignorant lobcock! Two miles a day. _Two miles!_ This rate we won't get t' Duquesne by Christmas—"

"—Rather be diggin' latrines all day then cuttin' a road out of the side of a Goddamned _mountain_ just so his_ lordship _can have a bloody bath when the mood strikes his fancy_—"_

"—Keep yer voices down, ya idjits! You want the Bulldog t'whip ya hisself—?"

"—What good is cannons in the woods, huh? Savages don't need cannon to nail our scalps to the trees—"

"Gentlemen, _please_," George begged in exasperation, noticing the derisive sidelong glances they received from the other camp fires. Oh, God, he wanted nothing more than to join them in their commiseration, but he was supposed to be their commanding officer, supposed to be some symbol of authority. They stopped, or at least made their grumblings less audible. "I have made my concerns known to the General. What he does with the information is up to his discretion."

"But, sir," One of the younger men began, but George cut him off with a placating hand.

"This is a military expedition, sirs, and it's operation is not up for open debate." When that sparked no further incendiary statements George inclined his head to them. "I'll see you all in the morning after prayers; we shall range a little further to see if any improvements can be made."

The men bid unenthusiastic farewells as George walked off, both parties even more disheartened and foul-tempered than before. He and his men's concerns with the expedition north were legitimate, and George was convinced that General Braddock was putting them all at unnecessary risk and expense. It wasn't George's youth or inexperience that Braddock despised; there were officers even younger than George Washington that had been given key appointments despite the fact that few of them had ever ranged much farther or done anything more daring then slip down to the pub on the edges of their estates to tumble tavern wenches.

No, it was the fact that George was born on the wrong side of the Atlantic that kept Braddock and his men from treating George with the dignity and respect that he longed for, much less even acknowledging George's concerns over how poorly the expedition was progressing. He was convinced that he was every bit as capable as the pink-cheeked lordlings that had scrambled to the Colonies on military commissions that their fathers had paid for. Was he not a British subject? He had always thought himself as such. Did he not pay his taxes? Was he not a loyal supporter of the crown?

He had half a mind to go back to his tent, pack his spartan belongings on the back of his exhausted horse, bid farewell to his men and ride south to take the next available ferry home. Although the expedition had set out from the little settlement on the bank of the Potomac nearly a week ago, their pace had been so slow and laborious that they were only perhaps a day or two's hard ride from Fort Cumberland. He could be home before his own fire by Sunday.

But... how would that serve, to retreat home, whimpering like a kicked dog? He could also bid farewell to any hopes of ever securing a commission—a _real_ commission, not as the leader of a well-intentioned but unruly group of militiamen, but as an officer in the finest army that had yet been seen on Earth.

The gloom of evening began sulking through the trees; it would be dusk soon enough. Where had the time gone? He thought about how he would be wakened for duty before dawn and sighed. Unsure of what else to do, he stomped through the muck towards the river, thinking that perhaps his mood would improve once he was clean. He frowned at the clamor that he found at the water's edge. A crowd had gathered at the stony bank of the river, enthusiastically hollering out suggestions and cat-calls. Taller than all but a few men in the camp, he had an unobstructed view of the source of all the ruckus.

Naked to the waist, three women sat atop the shoulders of other similarly disrobed men, the men's heads beneath the women's soaked skirts. All six were shrieking and roaring with laughter, the women slapping at each other with sodden bits of laundry while the men gripped them by the thighs or hips to hold them upright, staggering blindly to and fro as the women pressed their attacks, arms flailing, breasts bouncing. As George watched, one of the men slipped on a rock and he and his charge fell backwards into the chest-high water as the shore erupted in cheers and laughter.

George stood transfixed by the sight for perhaps a full minute before the reality of the situation dawned, and then his heart sank. While he certainly didn't _mind_ the sight of wet, half-naked women tussling in a steam, he would have preferred to watch while someone else was working on his laundry. He didn't see any other women. Although there were some forty souls officially employed by the army as maids or laundresses, most of them plied less seemly trades on the side. Doubtless he could wander into camp and find a woman to do his washing, but the chances were good that she would already be... occupied.

Briefly, he thought to press one of the women to perform in her official capacity, but he dismissed the idea immediately; trying to interrupt the spectacle would have caused a riot. Silently grumbling, he stomped upstream, wishing to be alone in his misery.

George proceeded up the bank of the river, trudging through the underbrush, brooding over his situation. _The life of a planter had been enough for your father_, His mother had lectured him before he had left, but George had politely demurred. His father may have been a planter, but George's elder half-brothers had both served in His Majesty's infantry. George had idolized his brother Laurence in particular, had doted on every word as he told him about his exploits in the Caribbean and Central America. Ancient pyramids even more grand than those of Egypt, tropical birds so brightly colored they looked like jewels with wings, trees so majestic that they scraped the very sky, water so pure and blue that one could see the very bottom of the ocean, dark-haired beauties that whispered sweet nothings in breathless Spanish.

George knew that his brother had faced his fair share of hardships as well; disastrous missions where only one in five men returned home, pirate attacks, dreadful diseases of every description, but George tended not to dwell on those tales. George's father had briefly entertained the idea of sending his third-eldest son to the Navy, but he died before anything could come of it. Laurence had thought of it as well, but when it became apparent that whatever foul consumption he had contracted abroad was likely to send him to an early grave, the idea was dropped entirely; it was decided that George would stay at home, look after his mother and siblings, and manage his newly inherited estate.

He had respected his father's wishes while he had still lived, and his elder brother's as well, but both men were dead. The last thing he wanted was to do was live a quiet and anonymous life out in the countryside, overseeing the growing of cotton and tobacco while his body grew old and fat. He aspired to more, craved adventure, and wanted very desperately to see the world beyond Virginia and the colonies; if he could do so while earning acclaim and serving his country, all the better.

George wandered, so preoccupied in his thoughts that he was almost upon the other man before he realized that he was no longer alone.

A lone soldier stood on the bank, looking out over the water, liquor bottle in hand. George had not gotten a good look at the man who had flown like some sort of demon from Braddock's tent, but he thought that he recognized the height, the lanky frame, the ink-black hair drawn into a tail at the nape of his neck with a bit of blue ribbon. The man took a long pull of the bottle, held it in his mouth, and then spat it out upon the ground. He coughed, shoulders shaking, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat.

"You!" George called out to him. All of the simmering rage that Braddock had inspired in him came boiling back to the surface. The man turned his head to peer over one shoulder and regarded George with a cold eye that held neither recognition nor evident interest.

"Leave me be," The man said quietly, and then turned his attention back to his bottle.

"You owe me a clean uniform, sir!" George demanded, picking his way towards the man though the rocks. The man turned. His uniform marked him as a Lieutenant. Even the way he dressed was offensive; his coat was rumpled and had been buttoned haphazardly, his tricorne rakishly askew, his gaiters splattered with mud. His face was unfamiliar to George. Braddock's expedition consisted of perhaps two thousand souls; a large but not overwhelming number. George knew nearly all of the officers by sight if not by name, and this man was not among them.

Later, George would recall how the man's face looked blotchy and reddened, his lip split and swollen beneath his mustache, the purpling beneath one eye. Later, he would remember the haunted look in the man's eyes the instant before they turned to chips of ice. He didn't think anything of it then, however—all George could think about was the filthiness of his own uniform and how the cause of his distress was standing right before his eyes.

The man swallowed his liquor with a grimace and then sneered at George.

"I said _fuck off!_" The man growled.

That was _it_. He'd had enough; he had reached the end of his patience. He had to tolerate Braddock's fits of rage and foul language because the man was his superior officer—but _this_ man was no one, just another lowly officer that doubtlessly thought himself superior by sheer right of birth.

George was so overcome with anger and hurt and spite that before he could even think about what he was doing he had seized the man's arm in a vice grip. The liquor bottle slipped from the man's hand and shattered on the rocks.

He didn't know what he expected to happen after that—an apology, perhaps, or further swearing—but it was certainly_ not_ the man making a low, horrible sound that was half growl, half scream, like a rusty saw through timber and then breaking George's hold with a shot to the elbow. The sharp, unexpected pain radiated all the way up to his shoulder and made George gasp, his grip loosening automatically. The man twisted out of his slackened grip, easily side stepping an ill-timed and clumsy blow, somehow winding up behind the larger man, grabbing George's wrist and wrenching the Colonel's arm behind his back in such a way that he almost yelled for the pain of it.

"Unhand me!" George demanded.

"Make me!" His adversary hissed near his ear, pulling even harder until George was certain that his arm would be wrenched from its socket with just an ounce more pressure.

George raised his foot and stomped, heard his enemy gasp and then his arm was free again. He whirled, only just managing to turn a sharp punch to the guts with his forearm. George could feel the man's rage behind every punch he threw, every slap to the face and sharp kick to the shin—far more anger than was merited by a lost bottle of booze. There was something else at play and it had turned the man into a whirling nightmare.

George suspected that he was stronger than the man, but his adversary was nearly as tall and had perhaps a longer reach. And he was fast, faster than George would have thought possible, evading George's grabs and blocking nearly every punch. George would have liked to have thought that he gave as good as he got, but the man's blows connected twice as often as his own, and soon George was entirely on the defense. He had to do something to seize control of the situation.

George squared his shoulders, hunched low, and bowled into the man, knocking the Lieutenant to the ground with George on top of him. They rolled in the weeds, grappling, rubbing against each other in their struggles, kicking and elbowing and cursing, neither man gaining the upper hand, until George finally—_finally_—managed to catch the man's wrists and with phenomenal effort, pinned them above his opponent's head. But the man still struggled, eyes wide, his body writhing beneath George, still trying to strike with his knees but these George stilled as well, pinning the man beneath him, sitting down hard on the other's thighs.

"You... o-owe me... clean," George managed between hard gasps for air, his body sore and aching where the man's hits had landed, his blood hot, his anger still festering.

The man's face was white beneath the dirt and red marks. Bright eyes stared back up at him, wide with mortification, his mouth agape, evidently not daring even to breathe, his body deathly still and taut beneath George. George glowered down at the man, puzzled, wondering what...

Wait, what was _that_...?

He could feel something hard against the back of his thigh, even through the layers of clothing between them. The man... was he _enjoying_ this? George looked the Lieutenant in the eyes, beyond shocked. There was none of the previous rage in the man's eyes then, no cool detachment or disdain—just pure, naked fear.

He should have gotten up. He should have left. Should have located the man's commanding officer, reported the man, should have... should have...

It was madness that drove him to do what he did next. Madness, pure and simple; an all-encompassing insanity. For days—even _years_ afterward he would wonder what foul impulse drove him to act in such an abhorrent manner, to cause what was clearly the most serious lapse in judgment he had ever made in his youthful life.

Maybe it was seeing the women earlier, or maybe it was just the evidence of the man's desire that made him bold, or... Or a one of a thousand things that he couldn't think of in the moment, because before he could even _comprehend_ what was happening, all he could think about was how the man tasted of rum, smelled of sweat and horses, earth and Spring. Thought about how strange but compelling it was, the contrast between the scrape of coarse, black stubble and petal-soft lips.

He felt the man's head shift, felt him seize George's lower lip in his sharp teeth, ready to mutilate, prepared to rip it from George's very face. Felt him hesitate. Then the other man merely worried at the flesh with his tongue and teeth. Sucked. _Moaned_. Melted beneath George's weight as the larger man pushed himself flush. The Lieutenant tried an experimental roll of his hips, making George's answer in kind, and he couldn't help but gasp, delighting in the friction and pressure.

George felt strangely dizzy, euphoric, almost as if he were drunk, as he ran his hands through the man's dark, silky hair, weaving it through his fingers. He felt his body respond—how could it not? It had been so long since he'd had something other than his own two hands to stimulate him, and the man's hands—when had he released them? George couldn't remember—They were on his hips, on his buttocks, squeezing, urging him on.

The man suddenly broke away.

"What are we _doing_?" he husked, gasping for air, eyes wide and baffled.

George stilled. It was a fair question—he wished he had an answer.

"Do you wish me to stop?" George asked in return.

No. George had not had to ask, the man's need was evident by his flushed face and neck, in his lust-blown pupils (such pretty eyes, the most delicate Spring green framed by long, dark lashes) and the way he never ceased grinding his hips into George's, even while questioning if they should stop. A fist tightened in George's hair.

"Don't you dare," The man growled, and brought them together once more.

It was as if everything else ceased to exist. Everything else had melted into the dusk. George felt the man's hands probing, reaching, and George heaved himself up on his elbows long enough for the other man to all but rip open the front of George's breeches. Before he could complain the words died in his throat as the man took him in hand, gathering moisture from his weeping tip, calloused fingers wrapping around him, pumping, until George was painting, gasping into his shoulder, _"Yes! Please, more!"_

"Touch me," The man demanded, and George was quick to comply, snaking his hand between their rutting bodies and releasing the man from his own breeches. He should have been horrified, disgusted; he was neither. That would come later. He did hesitate, however, at a loss as to how to proceed, but then he tried to mimic what the other man was doing, tried to emulate what he had liked himself, and the man below him moaned into George's neck, body shuddering, and he figured he had done it right.

Too soon, it was too much—He tried to slow down, still the pump of his hips into the other man's hand, but he bellowed helplessly into the man's shoulder, and the world went totally white. Dimly, he felt a hand wrap around his own—George had neglected the man in his own pursuits, he realized, and so he squeezed, pumping, and soon he heard the man hiss through bared teeth, sharp hips jerking, his seed spilling into George's hand.

A second. One blissful moment of pleasure. That was all there was, before George found himself abruptly pushed aside, his ass hitting the packed stony shore so hard he actually cursed. "What—?" he had started to say, but the man was already scrabbling to his feet, rubbing his hands off in the grass, cheeks aflame, breathing as hard as if he had run for miles. Before George could even get his legs to obey him, the man had composed himself back in his breeches and snatched his hat from the ground.

And then he just _fled, _almost at a run. Vanished into the woods, disappeared without a word or a backwards glance. Left George sitting there by the river, alone in the gathering darkness. Still covered in mud, but with the additions of grass stains on his knees, his back soaked where they had rolled too close to the water, twigs in his loosened hair, half of the buttons missing from his breeches, and—and there was... all over the front of his waistcoat...

George sat there in the dirt, the fog of lust dissipating as ice collected in his guts.

_Oh, dear God in Heaven, what have I done?_


End file.
